Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

dislocated part 3

Sour regret and old bourbon danced in the back of my throat when the morning light streamed through my window, forcing my pounding head to rejoin consciousness.

Oblivion's companionship always had the worst aftermath, and having spent too much time away, it felt worse than it usually did. Similar to not utilizing certain muscles for a long extended amount of time, its absence left me aching and miserable.

"Fuck," I groaned out, pushing past the dryness coating my mouth.

Bare hands finding my face, an attempt to knead out the itchy tightness, I froze.

Naked palms stared back at me. No signs of gloves or blood or dirt. Just me. Confusion twisted my brow even more when a thick layer of soot-like concealment hadn't been rubbed off onto clean skin. Only when did I pinch the sleep from the corners of my eyes, did a streak of black smear along the side of my fingers.

No memories of ever taking off my gloves or the war paint myself seemed familiar, but when I heard a light snore coming from the direction of my desk, I remembered before even looking up at her.

Another short expletive hissed through my lips, my upper body tilting up as I slowly rose onto my elbow to see if my ears had deceived me.

Nope.

There she was.

Taking a kip at my desk, head hanging low with her chin resting against her chest. She'd tucked her hands underneath crossed arms, and I couldn't help but smirk at the amazement that she hadn't stumbled out of the chair in that position, feet not slipping from the corner.

As soon as my head stopped spinning from the short distance above the mattress, I sat all the way up, the bottoms of my boots finding the hard surface of the floor. The side of my boot bumped into something as I made a feeble attempt to stand, and the sight of a half-filled trashcan drew out another sigh.

What else had she thought of?

Something small and white then caught my attention - the bottle of Tylenol waiting to soothe my aching head. My lips formed a thin line, and I teetered an invisible one where I didn't know whether or not to be more thankful or humiliated. I took two tablets, guzzled down with water from the sink, brushing my teeth thereafter to rid my mouth of stale disappointment.

A splash of cold water also cleared my brain of any lingering emotions that saturated a stable composure. I drank too much, and it caused cracks to form in the foundation that I originally wanted no one to encounter. Including her, especially her.

Tipsy me was fine to witness, and I didn't want to know exactly what conspired between us for her to decide to sleep in my space overnight. I only had the small gaps to tell me I missed some details.

"What time is it?" her voice sounded from behind me, and I turned my head to peer over my shoulder.

"0715," I paused, "Late."

A groan similar to mine when I first woke up traveled out of her throat as her legs slid off the wooden counter with two separate thuds. "Jesus," she muttered, "My ass fell asleep."

"You shouldn't have stayed in here," my attention returned to the sink as I spoke.

A bit too quick for someone who just woke up, she retorted, "Someone had to make sure you didn't aspirate on your own vomit." Maybe it was the hangover keeping me sluggish.

Nothing but a proper meal and a sweat-soaked hoodie from exercise would clear my mind. Even though my body protested for more rest, I looked forward to focusing on a racing heart battling with burning lungs as I pushed my body to its limitations.

From my periphery, I watched as she grabbed the mouthwash from my sink and stole a cup full. Cheeky.

As she straightened back up from spitting out her thievery, my smirk fell as she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, revealing something I'd not noticed before.

On her left cheek, a sliver of red ruined perfect skin. Freshly scabbed over, it thinned out the closer it got to her nose, telling me that some sort of shrapnel had grazed her.

I blinked. That was new. That was not there when we sat across from each other in the back of the aircraft last night on our way back to base.

Without thinking, my hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking the freshly made abrasion across her cheek. "What happened here?"

Her own fingertips touched where I did, hesitation widening her eyes briefly before erasing it. I noticed it, though. I saw the realization.

"Nothing. Must've been from the mission, dunno."

My teeth clenched together, jaw gnawing on the lie she told. "You didn't have this yesterday," silently telling her I'd caught on. I knew better than to believe such bullshit.

"Don't worry about it," her lips tried to softly smile at me, but it didn't reach those hazel eyes that expressed so openly to me.

My other hand joined the first to cup both sides of her cheeks, thumbs just in front of her ears and the rest of my fingers latching to her scalp. "Did I do this? Did I hurt you?"

I searched for answers I didn't know if I wanted at all, in any sort of change in her expression. She fought for the right answer, I could see it. Hazel eyes narrowed at me, mouth forming a thin line before answering, I noticed.

"It doesn't hurt."

"That-" I blew out a frustrated, exasperated, sigh. "That is not what I asked. Answer me, please."

Her reply came quickly. Rushed as if her mouth opened before she gave it permission. "It wasn't intentional."

"How'd it happen?" I muttered, voice flat and emotionless.

"Glass," her answer was short and sweet, to the point.

Undoubtedly, she didn't tell the whole story. Obviously. With a deep inhale, I stretched my ribcage, accidentally letting more concern burrow in between each rib. "How." It wasn't a question anymore.

"You threw a bottle, some of it must have flown further than anticipated," a meek reply with softened eyes finally gave me what I'd been pursuing.

Her hands hooked onto my wrists as soon as she felt me pulling away, keeping the close proximity despite what I'd done. I'd hurt her, intentional or not, the damage had been done.

Maybe I was just as similar as the man who visited my inebriated vision last night.

I didn't deserve such kindness when my hands were at fault for doing something I'd promised wouldn't ever happen: liberating pent-up regression to someone who loved me.

With my hands stained red, she didn't seem repulsed by them.

By me.

She kept my tainted palms, the same ones behind the small injury, right where she wanted, on her. The certainty never wavered, piercing right into me as if to silently assure me of her decision before speaking it.

"I'm not going anywhere, Simon."

"That's what I'm afraid of," I muttered, pressing my forehead against hers.